The death of this brother, with all its circumstances, was used by the Holy Spirit to produce a deep impression on Robert’s soul.  In many respects—­even in the gifts of a poetic mind—­there had been a congeniality between him and David.  The vivacity of Robert’s ever active and lively mind was the chief point of difference.  This vivacity admirably fitted him for public life; it needed only to be chastened and solemnized, and the event that had now occurred wrought this effect.  A few months before, the happy family circle had been broken up by the departure of the second brother for India, in the Bengal Medical Service; but when, in the course of the summer, David was removed from them forever, there were impressions left such as could never be effaced, at least from the mind of Robert.  Naturally of an intensely affectionate disposition, this stroke moved his whole soul.  His quiet hours seem to have been often spent in thoughts of him who was now gone to glory.  There are some lines remaining in which his poetic mind has most touchingly, and with uncommon vigor, painted him whom he had lost,—­lines all the more interesting, because the delineation of character and form which they contain cannot fail to call up to those who knew him the image of the author himself.  Some time after his brother’s death he had tried to preserve the features of his well-remembered form, by attempting a portrait from memory; but throwing aside the pencil in despair, he took up the pen, and poured out the fulness of his heart.

ON PAINTING THE MINIATURE LIKENESS OF ONE DEPARTED.

      Alas! not perfect yet—­another touch,
      And still another, and another still,
      Till those dull lips breathe life, and yonder eye
      Lose its lack lustre hue, and be lit up
      With the warm glance of living feeling.  No—­
      It never can be!  Ah, poor, powerless art! 
      Most vaunting, yet most impotent, thou seek’st
      To trace the thousand, thousand shades and lights
      That glowed conspicuous on the blessed face
      Of him thou fain wouldst imitate—­to bind
      Down to the fragile canvas the wild play
      Of thought and mild affection, which were wont
      To dwell in the serious eye, and play around
      The placid mouth.  Thou seek’st to give again
      That which the burning soul, inhabiting
      Its clay-built tenement, alone can give—­
      To leave on cold dead matter the impress
      Of living mind—­to bid a line, a shade,
      Speak forth, not words, but the soft intercourse
      Which the immortal spirit, while on earth
      It tabernacles, breathes from every pore—­
      Thoughts not converted into words, and hopes,
      And fears, and hidden joys, and griefs, unborn
      Into the world of sound, but beaming forth
      In that expression which no words, or work